


The Shrink: 1 - A New Patient

by gatesmasher



Series: The Shrink [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Psychoanalysis, daniel as shrink, jack as patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatesmasher/pseuds/gatesmasher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where Daniel Jackson never joined the SGC, Jack O'Neill seeks a psychologist to help him overcome his painful past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shrink: 1 - A New Patient

**Author's Note:**

> this is not a strict investigation of a Daniel-less SGC, that's frankly too much work and research for me; I mean, would it even have been _called_ a Stargate?  Would Teal'c be there?  Would Ra still be alive and Apophis of less importance?  Would Earth have been the target it was in the show?  So, I'm not taking things quite so seriously, I'm picking and choosing the episodes I want to use (first three seasons only), re-ordering them and shuffling characters around according to the demands of the story.
> 
> We pick up the action about half a year after the events that comprised the original movie would have taken place. Without Daniel, the 'Gate hasn't been opened yet, and a certain Colonel is getting antsy...

 

 

I always attributed my interest in psychology to the death of my parents when I was a child.  I witnessed them die right in front of my eyes when I was only eight, victims of a heavy cover stone and a faulty pulley during the installation of their exhibit at the New York Museum of Art.  I needed a lot of help from a lot of people, social workers, foster parents, therapists, but I recovered and, eventually, thrived.

Entering university at the age of sixteen, I dabbled in archeology, my parents' field, but there were too many memories.  Deciding there was no point in wasting all that classical education, I cobbled together a masters in Archeology and a doctorate in Philology, the study of historical (read: dead) languages.  But what I finally realized was that my true love was helping people. 

So I traded a trowel for a notebook, a dig-site for an armchair, and became a clinical psychologist.  Daniel Jackson, Ph.D., Ph.D., M.S.

For my specialty, that was easy: I'd always been fascinated by the armed forces, the sacrifices soldiers made, the horrors they endured, so I concentrated my research, and later, my practice, on treating the many difficulties military personnel experienced.  And while my respect for military authority, which was frankly never high, only lowered, my admiration for the soldiers themselves only grew.

I settled in Colorado Springs, near the active Air Force facilities of NORAD and Peterson Air Base, working down the highway from the Academy Hospital.  I built a practice from the area's general population, but also received frequent referrals from the Academy mental health workers: soldiers who needed extra help that the overworked staff just couldn't provide.

That's how one Jack O'Neill, Colonel, attached on special assignment to NORAD Command, came to enter my office on a winter's afternoon, the chill mountain air clinging to the officer's leather jacket, his fingers cold as the two of us shook hands. 

Sandy brown hair just starting to silver at the temples, O'Neill was a bit taller than me.  He was lean and rangy, solid and muscular.  He sported a hawk nose and thin yet expressive lips on an exceedingly handsome face.

Um, did I mention I'm gay?  Yeah, it can be distracting sometimes.

I firmly clamped down on my body's traitorous reaction and gestured the soldier to a seat on the couch, taking a seat myself in one of two armchairs at either end of the couch.  The Colonel quite pointedly sat in the other armchair, as far from me as he could get.  That was okay.  Sometimes people, especially soldiers just off or still on active duty, needed their distance.  That's why I made the chair available. 

I gave the expressionless man a bland smile from across the coffee table, settling my notebook on my lap.  "So, Colonel O'Neill, can you tell me what you are hoping to gain from therapy?"

"My job back."

"You're trying to get reinstated?"

"No."

"So you're on active duty?"

"Yes."

"Then what what do you mean by getting your job back?"

The officer shrugged.

I took a calming breath.  So far, so not good.  "Okay.  That's, um...confusing."

We studied one another for a few silent moments.  What I saw was no desk jockey, I was sure of it, not with the combat hardened physique that the leather bomber jacket couldn't begin to hide.  This man knew his way around a battlefield, as well as, I suspected, the occasional dark alley. 

As for what the Colonel saw, my body might be softer than O'Neill's, but, wire-rimmed glasses notwithstanding, I had left my geeky scholar's persona behind quite a while ago, cutting my long shaggy hair and updating my wardrobe from the plaids of younger years to casual slacks and snug fitting t-shirts.  First appearances count, fairly or not, and soldiers were notoriously harsh when judging 'books by their covers.'  (And besides, looking hot, if I do say so myself, didn't hurt when one went barhopping in Denver.)

Shrugging again, O'Neill finally said, almost grudgingly, "There's been a few months of...logistical difficulties getting the mission off the ground."  In a sudden change of subject, O'Neill jerked his chin at the walls, asking, "What's the deal with the Egyptian stuff?"

I had lovingly decorated my office with an abundance of mementos from my childhood: stone tomb fragments painted _fresco a secco_ , framed papyrus scrolls, shelves of elliptical cartouche renderings.  The credenza behind me supported numerous wooden _ka_ statues, a collection of Middle Dynasty glassware pots, and my pride and joy: an alabaster representation of Amon-Ra as a crouching hawk-headed man, a bright solar disk balanced on his head.  Less obvious were the multitude of Egyptology texts stuffing the credenza, most inherited from my folks.  There was even an old copy of that dim-bulb Sir Wallis Budge hiding in a corner on the lower shelf: I couldn't bring myself to toss it when I found scathing margin notes written in my father's hand.  "I spent my childhood at a series of dig sites in Egypt and the Middle East," I explained.

"Dig sites?"

"My parents were archeologists."  When there was no further response, I asked, "Does it bother you?"  Some of my soldier patients became upset at these reminders of their difficult times on duty in the Middle East.

O'Neill's eyes flicked over the walls and surfaces again, regarding the decor with no distress, but what might have been a touch of irritation.  "No.  Funny coincidence is all."

"Coincidence?"

"Not important," he said dismissively.

Okaaay....  Moving on.  "Colonel, I happen to know that NORAD has its own staff of mental healthcare specialists.  Why did you request an outside therapist?"

"I want an independent shrink."

I lowered my brows in disapproval at the pejorative term.  I've been told my fairly thick eyebrows are my most expressive feature.

O'Neill wasn't cowed, however, merely specifying, "Someone who won't spill everything I say to a superior officer."

"And you've said so much so far, I can understand your fear..." I drawled.

For a brief instant a surprised smile flashed across the man's face before the blankness clamped back down.

I sensed this topic was somehow significant and pushed a little more.  "The Academy Hospital has an extensive psychiatric department--"

"No.  No psychiatrists."

I raised my brows in question and for once O'Neill answered without my needing a crowbar to pry it out of him.  "Psychiatrists are M.D.s.  They can't wait to pump you full of drugs.  That's their answer to everything."

"...Okay.  And you don't want drugs, I take it."

"No."

"Well, it's true that training in a certain specialty tends to predispose you toward a certain kind of solution, regardless of the actual problem," I allowed.  "Drugs are, in fact, not the first thing I think of, but if I thought the situation warranted it, I wouldn't hesitate to suggest it."

O'Neill shrugged.  "You can suggest all you want."

Hard put to suppress a smile, I nodded solemnly.  "I'll keep that in mind."

O'Neill narrowed his eyes, but made no response.

"So," I went on briskly.  "Let's discuss modes of therapy."

"Oh, let's," O'Neill agreed, perfectly deadpan.

Taking the other man's words at face value, I said, "There's Interpersonal Therapy, focusing on your interpersonal skills, improving how you relate to family, friends..."

"I don't have any friends."

"No, I'm beginning to get that.  Um, Psychodynamic Psychotherapy?  Designed to increase your awareness of unconscious thoughts and behaviors?  Resolving conflicts and leading to a happier life?"

The Colonel's expression soured, lips drawing down.  "My life's plenty happy."

"Yes," I drawled.  "That much is imminently apparent.  How about Acceptance and Commitment Therapy?  Helps you identify your feelings, accept them, and commit yourself to the changes you want to make?"

"No feelings, no changes."

"Dialectical Behavior Therapy, then.  Helps you manage your emotions and--"

"No emotions to manage."

"Group therapy," I continued, not missing a beat.  "You could join a small group of people facing a similar _mental illness_?"  My innocently raised brows were met with a glare.  "Okay, no.  Well, there's Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, which helps you identify negative behaviors and replace them with positive ones."  I cut off the undoubtedly hostile reply from the soldier, saying, "But of course you have no negative behaviors, so that would be a waste of time."

O'Neill cocked a scarred brow and remained silent.

"Let's see, Exposure Therapy?  It deliberately exposes you to fears to help you overcome them."

"Not afraid of anything, doc."

"There's Play Therapy, but that's normally only used with children, to encourage them to more easily express emotions and feelings when they can't use _words_."

The silence this time was a pointed challenge.

I adjusted my glasses.  "No again.  Um, I'm guessing Family Therapy or Marriage Counseling are not applicable?"

The military man just stared.

"There's always Creative Art Therapy.  It allows you to express thoughts and feelings through music, drama, painting, poetry...?"

Finally an expression: disbelief.

"Dance and movement?" I continued innocently.

There was another flash of honest amusement, the smile grudgingly allowed to linger, relaxing those tense lips.  "No thanks, doc."

I drew a breath and slapped my hands down on my thighs.  "All right, then.  That just leaves us with good old fashioned Psychoanalysis: I will attempt to guide you to examine memories, events and, yes," I held up a finger, "feelings, from the past to understand your current feelings and behavior."

O'Neill crossed his arms petulantly.  "Still got no feelings to analyze, doc."

"Yes, you do, Colonel.  If you're human, you have feelings."

The stare of hostile challenge returned.

"Are you human?" I inquired.

"Last I checked."

"Then you have feelings.  Like it or not."

The arms remained crossed, but there was no comeback so I counted it a victory.  Deciding to immediately press my advantage, I made a wild guess and asked, "This bad experience with prescribed drugs you had in the past, care to enlarge on it?"

The soldier didn't answer, just stared steadily over my left shoulder at the credenza.

"Morphine?" I ventured.  Military hospitals were renowned for the over-prescription of morphine and the very scanty, and heavily redacted, file I'd been given on O'Neill left a lot of room for interpretation. 

The brown eyes flicked over to me for the barest second before re-fixing over my shoulder.  There was a world of pain in that dark gaze.  The man may be a functioning soldier (as well as handsome as hell), but I was coming to realized O'Neill was possibly one of the most desperately unhappy patients I'd ever encountered. 

I closed my notebook and set it aside, hoping to placate the officer's paranoia.  I considered a few therapy options and decided on Ellis and Harper's rational approach, thinking it might be more appealing to this practical man than Freud's laborious delving into the vast and mysterious unconsciousness.  "We can't expect to be happy at all times in life," I admitted quietly, knowing this wasn't exactly news to the hardened man.  "But we do have some control.  Negative thoughts have a real impact on our mental health, the statements we tell ourselves day in and day out.  It _is_ possible to get to the source of these negative thoughts and control them."

The look the soldier shot me was as disdainful as it was silent.

Unable to completely quell my frustration, I pinched the bridge of my nose for a moment then resettled my glasses.  I'm as patient as the next shrink but it looked like 'tough love' might be in order here.  "Um, as much as I enjoy talking to myself, could you tell me again what you hope to gain from therapy?  Because it's kind of hard to help someone who won't try to help himself."

"I'm only required to _report_ for a session," the Colonel explained with a touch of smugness.  "Not participate in it."

"So sitting here staring at a soapstone funerary urn for fifty minutes is going to fulfill the requirement?"

"That's the plan."

Okay, two can play at that game.  I crossed my arms and returned the blank stare.  No military hardass was going to out-stubborn _me_.  "If you think I'm going to send your superiors a favorable report, you're very mistaken."

After a blessedly short stare-down, O'Neill gave up the silent treatment with an irritated wave of his hand.  "You read my file."  A statement, not a question.  "What more do you need to know?"

"I was given a file, yes, but it contained only the barest of facts."

"My kid's dead and my wife divorced me.  Ya think that explains why I'm here?"  If O'Neill's expression was any more hostile it would be pure hatred.

I refused to go on the defensive.  "So you're depressed.  So maybe you just need a vacation.  Or a good kick in the pants.  Why a shrink?"

"Good question.  Ask my boss."

"I'm asking you."

"I don't know," he ground out.  "A beer and a talk with a friend is therapy enough for me, but the brass disagrees."

"Yes, that actually _is_ a good form of therapy," I admitted with a nod.  "But," I raised an inquisitive finger, "I thought you said you didn't have friends."

O'Neill shifted with what might be called a squirm.  "I exaggerated."

Oh no, you didn't.  "Okay.  So, tell me, when's the last time you had a good talk with a friend?"

O'Neill's expression grew, if anything, even stonier. 

Again I raised my innocent brows.  "The beer part I can see, but the talk part...?"  Still no response.  "Do you _have_ a friend you can talk to?"

"Dangling participle, doc," the Colonel observed, his voice light, his gaze still deadly.

"Do you have a _friend_?" I asked pointedly, not letting myself be sidetracked.

O'Neill raised his own brows, trying for casual as he said through clinched teeth, "The ex got them all in the settlement."

Trying to bring the anger down a notch or two, I moderated my voice.  "Okay, Colonel.  Yes, friends can help, but psychoanalysis is more than just a conversation between two people.  It's a professional relationship in which one participant is an acknowledged healer, an expert in psychological problems."

"Oh, I got a problem all right.  And right now it's you."

God, of all the frustrating...  "You already _had_ a problem, Colonel, or you wouldn't come in here at all."  Damn it, this man was pushing every button I had.  With an effort I tried for a gentle but non-condescending tone: "Your boy died almost a year ago, your wife left a few months after that.  Why a shrink now?  What changed?  I want to help you, but you need to give me a little--"

"And how long will this wonderful healing take, huh?" O'Neill interrupted.  "How many sessions you gonna milk the taxpayers for?"

"Dangling participle, Colonel," I couldn't resist snarking.  I may be a shrink, but I'm not a doormat.  Before my scowling opponent could interrupt again, I continued, "And while traditional psychoanalysis can take years, we should be able to make headway much faster.  I'm a taxpayer too, after all."

Sitting upright and flinging an arm out, O'Neill all but shouted, "So I'm screwed up!  So what?  Lots of people are, what's the point?"

Ah, some real emotion at last.  Regressive anger, true, but emotion nonetheless.  "Colonel, my job is to increase your self-awareness, help you develop more mature defenses--"

"Mature?" O'Neill demanded incredulously.  "Are you calling me immature?  Do you know how many lives depend on me?"

I regarded him coolly, refusing to back down, sensing this was a man who would only confide in someone he respected.  "If your job is that vital, I would think you'd be open to improvements.  Emotionally, I'd say you're at toddler level."  As O'Neill sputtered in indignation, I amended magnanimously, "Maybe preschool."

"I've done okay so far!" O'Neill spit out.  "Why mess with success?"

I spread my hands.  "Colonel, you're the one who called me."

"Not voluntarily," he snapped.

"Look," I began reasonably, "if you don't really know what the problem is, you can't fix it--"

"Hey, ya know what my problem is?  Sitting here and listening to bullshit.  And ya know the solution?  Real easy."  O'Neill got up with a tight smile that had nothing to do with amusement, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

As framed papyrus rattled on the walls, I drew in a deep breath, tipping my head back to rest on the chair cushion.  Why did I feel as if I'd just run a marathon?  I scrubbed at my face, letting my breath out in a defeated sigh.  I didn't think I'd be seeing the good Colonel again.  And that was a shame.  The man had depths that probably couldn't be plumbed in a hundred sessions.  Depths that I would love to plumb... 

With a self-deprecating snort, I shook my head at my runaway libido.  "Down, boy," I muttered, hauling myself up to organize my notes.  Yes, O'Neill was easy on the eyes, but he was in considerable emotional pain.  If only I had been what he needed in a doctor.

I filed my notes away, fully expecting to never need them again, and wished Jack O'Neill good luck, hoping that someday the intensely private man would open up to someone, and find the peace he deserved.

-end- 


End file.
